"The mask is destroyed, Sire."
"Destroyed? Safely?"
"Safely, Sire."
"And the Dauphin—Charles—does he know——"
Again he paused, and again La Mothe filled the blank, reading into the completed words the uncompleted question.
"The Dauphin knows nothing but that the gifts were mine."
"Yours! Yes, yours, yours only, and you dared—who is that at the table?" His voice rose shrilly into a cry. "That is not Paul Beaufoy."
The shift of eyes, the change of voice, rather than the words themselves warned La Mothe. Round he spun, irresolute in surprise. Nor was it the figure stooping at the table-edge with a hand reached for the light that caught his gaze, it was the gleam of that light clear upon a signet ring, and Villon's phrase rang in his ears—"A martlet with three mullets in chief." Then the lamp flickered out.
"Molembrais!" he cried, and sprang on Molembrais; and from behind, as they twisted in each other's arms, he heard the King whisper in an indrawn, frightened breath, "Molembrais! Molembrais!" as if the dead had risen.
Molembrais! It was the third cast of the net. Straining his grip yet tighter, La Mothe fought for his life. Molembrais was the stronger, Molembrais was the more desperate, and desperation is a strength in itself. Twisting, their limbs interlocked, they spun, tripped and fell; and with the blood drumming in his ears La Mothe heard nothing, knew nothing, felt nothing but Molembrais' hot breath in his face, Molembrais' tense muscles closing, stiffening, crushing as they rolled upon the floor, wrestling as they rolled. Then of a sudden the room was ablaze, a racking violence wrenched. Molembrais from his clasp, and he was pressed back downward on the floor, a sword at his throat. It was Commines; Leslie and a guard held Molembrais; beyond, at the doorway, stood Ursula de Vesc; by the bedside Father John stooped above the King, his arm thrown round him.